


but I am home

by Fuckboy Phoebus (The_Resurrection_3D)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Nightmares, Pet Play, Puppy Play, Red Riding Hood Elements, Subdrop, no actual rape occurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-11-04 19:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17904047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/Fuckboy%20Phoebus
Summary: Maybe in this story the wolf doesn’t have to die.





	1. exhibit a

**Author's Note:**

> Edit March 11: I changed the warning to "rape/noncon" because the next chapter I have planned would fundamentally not function without its rape themes. This chapter just has a quick reference to it. Again, no actual rape occurs. I will keep the rating and tags updated as need be. Stay safe, folks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this like two weeks ago while I was in a weird place mentally to try and make myself feel better. Warren don't @ me.

Paul wakes up to his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

The world is dark, even Patryck’s reading lamp on the nightstand turned off – no moon, no shadows of bony branch fingers along the walls and ceilings. Radio static spread through his chest, the burn of repressed tears all throughout his sinuses. He wakes up with his hands clawing at the soft leather collar around his throat, tinkling the name tag, fumbling for the latch once, twice, three times more than should be necessary.

It’s loose, but the mere weight of it is enough.

He tosses it down, balances himself on his hands – carpet, plush pillow under the rest of him, blanket over top.

“Patryck?” he croaks out, before his brain catches up and he realizes the rough carpet underneath him is not because he’s rolled off the bed again– no, he’d been told to sleep on the floor.

No sound.

“Patryck?” he asks louder, more desperate. His eyes are adjusting enough now to see lighter black shapes around him, enough for him to remember where he is in relation to their bed. “Patryck?”

A shuffling of sheets, a groan. “Wha’? Paul?”

Paul starts to crawl forward, but stops and hisses in pain as soon as he moves his legs – the lightest touch of the soft blanket over the back of his thighs burns like a motherfucker, and Paul’s fingertips find a long list of stripes, like notches along a bedpost.

Vague memories of the nightmare – red on white refracted, purple bruises on brown skin, a violent _mise an abyme._

Paul idles a moment, pressing his nails into the welts before he finally kicks off the blanket and crawls to ~~their~~ Pat’s bed, chewing his cheek as the pain in his legs intensifies.

_You’re such a fucking child._

I fucking bought this bed, I get to sleep in it.

“Paul?” Patryck’s voice, too tired for emotion; Patryck’s hands, cold and calloused along his face, so welcome Paul can’t help but jerk away. “Puppy, what’s wrong?”

“I dunno,” Paul says, cringing at the whine in his voice. The burn behind his eyes turns to needles right through them. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re dropping.” The sleep is gone from Patryck, yet still nothing but that clinical detachment remains. “Here, get under the covers.”

“It still hurts.”

“I’ll put some more salve on it. Come on,” pulling on the covers until Paul lifts up his knees, exposing a bit of himself  -- naked, like Paul, skin perfect save for the place on his inner thigh where Paul had gotten too impish and bitten him and tasted metal. “Come cuddle up to me.”

Paul bites down on his cheek, tasting his own as he slips into place, pulling Patryck into his arms. Patryck rests his face against Paul’s collarbone, running his fingers along the taut rope of muscle in Paul’s neck—Paul has never liked his face touched when he’s in a state, and even this is almost too much.

Paul bites harder.  

Paul wraps his arms around Pat, tries to swing a leg over, only to find even that stretch reignites an ache deep inside him. Patryck notes his expression and instead slips his knee between Paul’s, scooting closer.

“Do you want to do your routine again?” Patryck asks, voice quiet and deep in his throat. Warm shower and shoulder massage, a candy bar split between the two of them.

Paul’s first instinct is _absolutely,_ but the thought of the water on the back of his thighs—yeah, no thanks. Besides, he doesn’t want to keep Patryck awake any longer than he has to; the thought that Patryck may not remember this if he just can slip back out before he wakes is the only thing making this intrusion tolerable.

He needs to hear Patryck’s voice again, so instead he inhales the familiar black cherry of Patryck’s hair and says nothing at all.

It’s silly to say, but Patryck’s scent has always reminded him of finding a seat in the corner of the library and falling asleep just out of the reach of the sun.

A cleared throat. “Paul?”

“No, ’m okay.”

“Sure?”

To which Paul nods, planting a small kiss on Patryck’s hair. “Just a nightmare.”

Patryck yawns. “You have a lot of those.”

Paul grunts. I know.

Patryck kisses the nape of Paul’s neck, murmuring against the prickly skin. “Did you start seeing Erin like I asked?”

Erin the therapist, to which the answer is that Paul thought long and hard about it and then went out with Tord to drink and watch a football game he doesn’t even recall. “Yeah.”

 “Okay. Good.” He lets Paul pull him even closer to his chest, (ignoring) not noticing how Paul’s skin prickles with goosebumps, an itch deep in the bone. “Sleep well, love.”

I could, if I could be sure I wouldn’t dream about raping you.

Everything is fine. The scent of dark cherries is overwhelming, and for once Patryck seems to be running warm against him, his heartbeat slow and even under the hand Paul slips between his shoulder blades.

( _He’s better off without_ -)

Everything is fine, for _fuck’s_ sake.  

"Sorry for waking you up." One part genuine, another sickeningly hoping for Patryck to pull back and coo over him, _no no baby, you don't bother me at all,_ but he wouldn't love Pat so much if that's what he could expect to happen. 

Instead Patryck yanks his pinned arm free, snaking both around Paul’s neck, nuzzling closer to his chest with a mumbling that sounds like either “puppy” or “Paulie.”

Patryck kisses his cheek, just a quick peck. He rests his face hardly a centimeter from Paul's, close enough for Paul to feel his warm breath on his lips. His own eyes are heavy and his body is on a pendulum as he lays here still and watches Pat sleep, but Paul doesn’t mind. 

The next dream is a blissfully boring monochrome. 


	2. exhibit b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nevermind what I said in the last chapter we rollin boys
> 
> I'm still trying out a new style that I've wanted to write for awhile, so bear with me; this will weave some nonfiction segments into the fictional parts. I guess technically you can skip over the nonfic parts, but I don't think you should. If you've read my fic "stupid bullshit," it's very similar to that, with more emphasis on academic texts and real personal reflection than metafiction. I was originally going to wait and post the entire thing as a two-shot (which is over 10k at the moment), but I decided to just take an L for the sake of reader accessibility for once in my life. Lol it's not like anyone asked for this anyway.

In her groundbreaking 1975 book  _Against Our Will_ , feminist Susan Brownmiller cites "Little Red Riding Hood" as example of how "rape seeps into our childhood consciousness by imperceptible degrees."

* * *

Paul wakes to the smell of eggs and pancakes.  He tries to roll onto his back, but the spaces beside him dip, plastic legs caging him in. The clatter of utensils and ceramic, the softer thuds of two glasses of water being placed on the nightstand.

“Sleep better?” Patryck asks absently, sitting down on the edge of the bed. A purple robe drapes open over his frame, his brown hair tied back in a loose, already-spilling ponytail.

Paul carefully pushes himself onto his elbows, Patryck slipping a pillow behind his shoulders. “A little, yeah.” He can’t help but feel a twinge of embarrassment as he takes in his tray: a fluffy spinach omelet and pile of pancakes drowned in syrup and whipped cream and strawberries. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re right,” Patryck says, taking up Paul’s fork and spearing a strawberry off his plate. “But I wanted to.” He takes his bite, hands the fork back to Paul. “Now eat. Are your legs still hurting?”

 He hasn’t tried to move them yet for a reason. “Not really.”

“Not really or no?”

“Not really as in I’m not going to die.” He cuts a thick slice of his omelet, words muffled with his chewing. “Thanks for the breakfast, though.”

“Tord called to say he just needs help moving some stuff out of the old warehouse. Are you gonna open the shop with me?”

Paul chews for too long, dread in his stomach. The next bite scraps against the walls of his throat. “I guess I’ll go ahead and help Tord.”

“Some of the kids are starting to ask what happened to you.”

When Paul sets down his fork and knife he can practically see the sweat glistening on them.

“You know how I am with them,” Patryck says, taking a pointed sip of his water. Paul can’t help but laugh at his face, eyes wide and lips thin like a traumatized muppet. Patryck's flat tone usually deflected any younger customer's interest, but somehow, someway, last week a jelly-stained girl around the age of three had ended up gently interrogating him on his Jewishness, which was all well and good, until Patryck had had to explain where exactly bacon comes from. 

Paul wasn't there, but he knows the story because afterwards he'd been told only half-jokingly to check all the windows for cracks. 

“You broaden their horizons,” Paul says, to which Patryck rolls his eyes:

“One more kid decides to piss themselves in the store and I’m gonna broaden their face with a shovel.”

Paul laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his omelet.

Patryck smiles, leaning forward and brushing some of Paul’s hair behind his cauliflowered ear once he's collapsed back into the pillows. For all the warm food, Patryck’s hand still feels cool against his skin, but Paul simply turns his face into it, beaming back.

Patryck’s smile is gone.

Paul opens his mouth, but Patryck cuts him off:  “I remembered something you told me last night,” he begins, “that you started seeing Erin – and right before I feel back asleep, I thought, Hey, wait a minute, you've told me about any appointments.”

“Because you’re always so busy!” Paul retorts, reaching up toward's Pat's ear, but Patryck catches his wrist before Paul can even ghost a nail through his hair.

Patryck relaxes his grip at Paul’s widening eyes, sighs, puts Paul’s hand down on the bed. Paul tries to speak again, but the words catch in his throat, so Patryck clears his own and continues, “Anyway, I called Erin and she didn’t recognize your name.”

Patryck narrows his eyes. “Not gonna say anything?”

Paul shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Patryck’s shoulders fall, _idiot, idiot, id—_

“Do you want some more of my strawberries?”

Patryck massages his finger-pads into his eyelids –

\- “I’m sorry, okay? I just” –

 - turning to glance at the clock before giving an exhausted sigh.

“It’s too early to fight with you, Paul.”

“Then don’t,” Paul says. “Just sit here and have breakfast with me. Get back in bed; we have an hour before the shop opens.”

Patryck shakes his head, pushing a hand through his bangs, eyes suddenly so dark-rimmed and puffy. "I have to shower and restock the shelves,” _which he could’ve done if he hadn’t made you breakfast,_ “and then make some final arrangements for the Army meeting tonight –”

“I’ll do that. All of it. Just have another strawberry?”

Patryck hasn’t lifted his hand off Paul’s wrist. Now he moves the hand up, intertwining their fingers, lifting them up to gently kiss Paul’s knuckles.

Then he stands and draws his robe tight around himself. “I’m not hungry." Their eyes linger, Patryck's fingers drumming on his arms, Paul swallowing down the urge to say 'Please", when Patryck sighs, shoulders slacking. "You know I love you, right?”

Paul nods _. For now._ “Of course.”                                 

A curt nod. “Good. Put anything you don’t eat in the fridge." The shower is a bit down the hall, so he turns away, throwing out from the doorway, "And if you get a chance to today, the dishwasher’s broken.”

* * *

_"Red Riding Hood,_ " she concludes, "is a parable about rape...Better stick close to the path, better not be adventurous. If you are lucky, a _good friendly_ male may be able to save you from certain disaster."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of self-harm and disordered eating

There are two stories here I am trying to tell you: of Paul shattering himself and getting slightly pieced back together, and of the way I ruined my last trip to Disneyland.

After the last scene, Paul fixes the dishwasher while Pat showers, and they pass each other in the hallway, not touching.

Just another normal day.

His legs hurt far less when he walks, now, though the muscles scream when he sits on the edge of the bathtub, still wet with Patryck’s footprint. Oh well, it’s Sunday anyway, so they’ll have the store mostly to themselves until the late afternoon, once everyone has filed out of their post-church feast.

Paul inspects himself in the mirror as the hot steam starts to fill the room. The jiggling thighs and belly that Patryck loves to run his hands over, raising his eyebrows at Paul’s stories of making weight for wrestling – starve for days, binge for days, sometimes so much exercise he’d be left hungry enough to eat up to ten thousand kcals.

Now he and Tord just have Red Army banquets for two.

Thank God Pat lets him keep his accounts separate.

The welts on his thighs have purpled to a violent night sky, except for –

A small butterfly bandage on one of them, higher up his ass. Huh. Patryck must have put that on while he was sleeping. Probably antibacterial cream too, as per usual.

The other day I found in the free book box by the bar a slim blue volume:  _The_ _South Atlantic Review,_ volume 63, winter 1998. Probably stolen out from one of my English professors and then discarded. The first essay is on Christopher Marlowe’s – a contemporary of William Shakespeare, for those who don’t know – 1594 historical play,  _Edward II._  The new king brings his old lover Gaveston back from his exile in France and shit immediately hits the fan, ending with both of their deaths.

Paul peels the bandage back, pulls apart the edges of the cut, and watches a few droplets of blood appear. It hurts, yeah, and if he didn’t know better he would relent to his instincts and slip his fingers inside, tease it open a little more, if only to prove to himself that it’s not the kind of pain he’s looking for. Besides, he needs this to heal; they have some local hot-shot author coming in tomorrow for a reading. Mics need to be tested, floors sweep, couches drenched in fabric refresher, signed copies counted. We need a good performance to sell it, Tord had told them.

 _“By “performance” here,”_ writes William B. Kelly (not to be confused with William B.  _Kelley_ , late Chicago lawyer and gay rights activist),  _“Deleuze and Guattari refer to the conversion of blockages into lines of flight. For example, spurs might be constructed, linking two previously unconnected roads. This provides a means of traversing previously restricted spaces…”_

It never works, anyway. Rip open cuts, walk on broken feet, claw up his skin until it’s red and the gray collects under his fingernails – it’s never as satisfying as everyone makes it out to be. It feels like a song that’s middling out with no resolution, ending on all the wrong chords.

_“…By “competence,” Deleuze and Guattari allude to existing with the blockages without transforming and eluding them: doing one’s best regardless of how stifling the experience may be.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suffice it to say I'm not having a good time right now, stream "Woah, Those Tits!" on bandcamp

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to god the way I write angst is the SoundCloud rapping of fanfiction.


End file.
